


dreams loose from the tether

by whatiwouldnotgive



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Comfort, Cultural Differences, Face-Fucking, I think that's everything, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Play, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Spitroasting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:27:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28863282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatiwouldnotgive/pseuds/whatiwouldnotgive
Summary: “How many times do you think we can make him spend tonight, Master Elf?”  Aragorn shudders as Gimli’s deep voice rolls through him, the promise of those words turning his mind fuzzy.“At least twice I should say,” Legolas says, “shall we keep a tally?”  Legolas tugs the laces of Aragorn’s breeches, the sensation making him bite back a moan.“You underestimate our leader, Legolas,” Gimli says.  “The stamina of both men and dwarves are unrivaled.  I say three, four times.”  Gimli bites at Aragorn’s neck while he grips Aragorn’s ribs hard enough to bruise.“I’ll take those odds.”
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	dreams loose from the tether

**Author's Note:**

> for all those asking for it, and everyone who most certainly did _not_ ask for it: i present to you 5k of aragimleaf smut. please enjoy cum dump aragorn getting slut shamed in the most life affirming way possible uwu and martha, if you're reading this, dom legolas is for you. special thanks to proprioception for the headcanon behind elven and dwarvish flirting/propriety which is featured here <3
> 
> title from "under the stars" by william stanley braithwaithe 
> 
> disclaimer: i do not own lotr, all rights belong to respective owners

Aragorn learned early in his youth of one of the many customs that separate the Eldar and Men. Conceptions of modesty, propriety, and sensuality evolved along two diverging paths between their two peoples. And although on the surface, it appears that they make little difference, as a child of both worlds, he learns that they should not be taken for granted. Rather early, actually. At tender 16: Elrohir pulling him aside to explain why Arwen is embarrassed that he found her in the library with her hair tied up and out of the way but perfectly happy to speak with him the time he happened upon her swimming naked during one of Imladris’s hotter summer days. 

Now that his travels take him throughout the rest of Middle Earth beyond Imladris’s borders, he finds sport in finding other differences between peoples. There are even customs which separate different cultures of _Men_ : what those from Bree find intimate and private is different from the Rohirrim to the south. While most of the time, this knowledge plays little importance in his day to day living, it does, on occasion, make him very aware of when he is in the middle of some seduction or another. 

Like right now.

They’ve been at each other for _days_ . Not arguing necessarily (though they still pick fights and bandy banter back and forth), but somehow the situation Aragorn finds himself caught between is so much worse. No, Gimli and Legolas have been, in a word, _flirting_ rather obscenely back and forth. Aragorn tends to the small fire they’ve allowed themselves for the night to cook some small hares. From the corner of his eye, he sees Legolas return from the river, his hair dripping wet and soaking through his linen shift which, Aragorn notices, is unlaced, bearing his chest as it slopes down over one shoulder. He tips his head back and sighs towards the stars, watching Legolas carefully—deliberately—squeeze out excess water and begin braiding his hair. Legolas sweeps up all the hair not being plaited and ties it in a quick pile on top of his head, leaving the long, long length of his neck exposed. Aragorn follows Legolas’s glance towards Gimli, who sits cross legged as he takes a whetstone to his axe.

Aragorn rolls his eyes, turns the meat over to cook the other side. He’s too old for this. All three of them are. Well, maybe not Legolas, who’s still considered a youth by his people’s reckoning. Either way, Aragorn is much too old to be playing third wheel for two people who are still piecing their way through the generations-long animosity separating their friendship.

Perhaps, he should’ve said something when it all began, nipped it in the bud. When the Fellowship left Lothlorien is when he first noticed Legolas pulling his hair to one side to bare his neck. It was when they were on the Anduin, the sun beating down on them. Legolas’s hand trembled ever so slightly—only Aragorn trained in the tells of Elves could’ve noticed—as he swept his hair off his neck, turning pale pink on the tips of his ears while he stared at Gimli as if gauging a reaction. There wasn’t one, of course, because what Dwarf would know of Elvish customs regarding courtship?

But then, they pulled ashore another day. Boromir took the Hobbits for sword fighting lessons, and Aragorn went out to search for game. Upon his return, he watched with a dawning realization, as Gimli stripped off his boots and hose to let them dry. He glanced at Legolas before shuffling off to the river’s edge to wash them. Gimli returned, and sat in front of the fire, barefoot, stealing darting looks to Legolas who paid no mind as he crafted new arrows. As soon as Aragorn made his presence known, Gimli reached for a blanket and covered his bare feet. In his mind, Aragorn had heaved a very deep, very put-upon sigh.

He isn’t sure whether he prefers the arguing and sniping to this. At least when their bickering wears too much on his nerves, Aragorn could allow his mind to wander. Drifting, aimless thoughts of how he might get the two to get along. Then, _then_ , he’ll catch himself wishing to be in the middle. And in the middle in decidedly _different_ manner than when they have him settle petty arguments and more so like putting aside differences in order to slip a cock between his lips or fuck him in tandem. He’s always shaken from these moments by Legolas calling him over to check the trail, embarrassment and arousal swirling low in his gut. Guilt always follows, storming in his gut, for he already asks too much of his dear friends. It would be unthinkable to ask that they give more of themselves to him.

He does not wish to be bandied between their clumsy flirtations tonight, for they have been running after Merry and Pippin’s trail tirelessly for days. Hoping to put a stop to it, Aragorn says in Sindarin, low so Gimli can’t overhear, “ _Legolas, what are you doing?_ ”

Legolas shoots him a look, “ _What are you talking about?_ ” Which, really. 

“ _Your hair_. _Showing off your neck._ ” 

Legolas sniffs, tying off one plait before starting on another. “ _I don’t know what you mean, Estel._ ” 

Aragorn, who had been poking at the coals with a twig, snaps it in his grip. 

“ _You know very well what I mean. He doesn’t understand the meaning of it, you know._ ” 

Just as Legolas opened mouth to retort, Gimli speaks up, “Those are very fine braids, Master Elf. I will admit that one thing our people share is the beauty that can be crafted with them.” 

Legolas first goes starry-eyed and soft, then turns to Aragorn, smug, and says, “I must agree, Gimli. Men all too often lose sight of beauty that can be found in small details.” 

Gimli laughs, Aragorn’s cheeks burn. Glaring, he turns to the fire just in time to pull the hares off before they burn. He misses Samwise’s cooking. 

“Aw lad,” Gimli says, moving to Aragorn’s side. “We’re only teasing. I’d be happy to give you a braid or two if you’d like.”

Gimli doesn’t wait for an answer, instead kicking off his boots (which sets Aragorn’s brain off) and sliding behind Aragorn. His fingers, calloused but sturdy, stroke Aragorn’s hair back off his forehead. It’s been quite some time since he’s had anyone do this for him; it always made him feel protected, ever since Elrond would draw him into his lap and braid his hair on a quiet, leisurely morning in Imladris as a child. Legolas now rounds Aragorn’s side, taking the meat from him and nimbly stripping it off into the stew pot that’s been bubbling for an hour or so now. 

“Here,” Gimli says low and pulls Aragorn to sit between his thighs. He plaits two braids on either side of Aragorn’s temples, tying them off at the back of Aragorn’s head. By the time he’s finished, Legolas has three bowls ready to hand off. Gimli continues to let Aragorn rest on him, and Aragorn can’t find anything in him to pull away from Gimli’s broad chest and warmth. 

In between bites, Gimli says, “You push yourself too hard,” kneading the base of Aragorn’s neck. 

“I only push myself to do what must be done,” he replies, voice hoarse. Gimli’s uncovered foot rubs gently against his thigh. 

“I would not have you run yourself ragged trying to carry everything.”

Aragorn exhales, slowly, feeling deeply the rise and fall of his own chest. Legolas, cupping his jaw, says, “Nor do you need concern yourself with Gimli and I. We can handle ourselves.” In the firelight, Aragorn catches the hints of a blooming mark on Legolas’s neck, and realizes with a sort of dawning horror, that he’s been played for a fool. 

Reaching up, he touches the mark. Legolas smiles. “How long?” Aragorn asks.

“Just after Lothlorien,” Gimli answers. He presses a kiss to the hinge of Aragorn’s jaw. 

“We were wondering how long it would take you to notice,” Legolas says. “We almost took out a wager.”

“And I would’ve won that if we had,” Gimli says. 

Legolas leans in, face fey, “He said you were too wrapped in your own mind to notice. I figured you’d at least say something if I grew more bold with my hair.” Legolas then kisses Gimli, trapping Aragorn between their chests. 

When they part, Gimli passes Aragorn to Legolas, who splays Aragorn’s legs over his hips. 

“Must everything be a competition between you?” he says, shivering as Legolas strokes the broad plains of his back while Gimli puts aside their crockery. 

“No, but I believe that’s something you’re not entirely opposed to,” Legolas says. He cups Aragorn’s shoulder blades as he presses his forehead to Aragorn’s. “You attempt carry the weight of responsibility and hardship alone. Let us bear some of your burden. Help you find some release.” 

They’re camped in an open plain of Rohan. It would be more than foolhardy to do so, but something a little left of relief settles over him. It sings like a robin that maybe the annoyance he’s been feeling in their presence is closer kin with jealousy than weariness. He sinks into Legolas’s chest to kiss him, wraps arms around him, and pulls his hair from the bun, so he may tangle his hands through it. Legolas hums deep throated against his mouth, while slipping beneath his tunic. Ghosting over bruises and scrapes, he trails along Aragorn’s ribs, scratches his nails through Aragorn’s chest hair.

Gimli scuffles behind them. Legolas in the meanwhile tugs off Aragorn’s shift, setting his mouth to his collarbones. Gimli, now bare chested himself, presses against Aragorn’s back once more to kiss along his shoulder tops. Aragorn lets his eyes fall shut, basks in their warmth and gentle touches, if only to hide the bit of wetness threatening to spill over. He cares for them so deeply, his cup runs over. Spills out with every action he takes. Gimli holds his waist firmly, and Legolas meets him, lacing their fingers together. Their gazes meet.

“How many times do you think we can make him spend tonight, Master Elf?” Aragorn shudders as Gimli’s deep voice rolls through him, the promise of those words turning his mind fuzzy.

“At least twice I should say,” Legolas says, “shall we keep a tally?” Legolas tugs the laces of Aragorn’s breeches, the sensation making him bite back a moan. 

“You underestimate our leader, Legolas,” Gimli says. “The stamina of both men and dwarves are unrivaled. I say three, four times.” Gimli bites at Aragorn’s neck while he grips Aragorn’s ribs hard enough to bruise. Aragorn knows, reasonably, he probably couldn’t spend more than three times in a night, but that doesn’t stop the whine he feels bubbling up his throat.

“I’ll take those odds.” 

With that, Legolas slips a hand beneath his leathers and squeezes Aragorn’s cock. Aragorn jerks in his grip, huffing out a breath while his brow knits. 

“Steady now, lad,” Gimli says. Gimli scrapes his nails down Aragorn’s back, hooking his fingers into the waistband of his trousers. Then trailing wet, open mouthed kisses along the length of Aragorn’s spine. Aragorn flexes his hips into the dry heat of Legolas’s palm which remains still and steadfast against his cock. 

“Might you relinquish him long enough to divest him of his breeches?” Gimli says.

Rolling his eyes playfully, Legolas does, shoving Aragorn onto his back to remove his boots and leathers. Aragorn shivers in the cool night air as well as the weight of both their gazes along the length of his legs. Gimli takes one in hand, massaging Aragorn’s sore foot while Legolas strips quick and efficient. Placing Aragorn’s foot against his still-clothed prick, Gimli rocks down against it, eyes shut and humming a moan beneath his breath. Then both their hands are maneuvering him between them, up onto his knees which Legolas spreads apart. Teasing, light and quick, on his inner thighs, left quivering in the wake. 

“What are you two—” he says, cutting off with a groan as Legolas slides his mouth down onto Aragorn’s cock at the same time as Gimli drags a tongue along his hole, sloppy and wet. “Oh, _stars_ ,” Aragorn exclaims. He rocks back onto the heat of Gimli’s mouth, scrabbles at Legolas’s back for purchase. Their hands—Aragorn can’t spare any thought to who is gripping him where—push and pull him between their mouths. 

Legolas suckles at the tip of his cock, laps at the dribble of come leaking. What he doesn’t hold in his mouth, he grasps with his fist, twisting and pulling Aragorn to full hardness. Gimli presses wet circles along his rim, sucking and licking but not yet sliding inside. The scratch of his beard makes heat pool in Aragorn’s belly, thinking absently of the burn that will linger long. Pausing, Gimli traces down Aragorn’s thighs, purposefully rubbing his cheek along the sensitive skin. Legolas licks his way along Aragorn’s length, squeezes around the base, and rubs near punishing at the crown. Draws the foreskin back to slip more come down his prick.

“ _Legolas_ ,” Aragorn chokes out. 

“What say you, Master Dwarf, that he moaned my name first?” Legolas strokes him harder, fist slapping against Aragorn’s belly. Aragorn gasps damply against his chest.

Gimli pulls away, leaving Aragorn feeling hopelessly wet and bare, to say, “I say put your mouth back to better use, a name is naught compared to the noises he’ll make when I’m finished here.” Aragorn trembles as Gimli finally begins to fuck him on his tongue at the same time Legolas takes Aragorn into his throat and _swallows_ around him.

“By Elbereth, Gimli,” Aragorn says, limbs turning to water, useless as he’s bounced between them. His hands war between clutching at their hair, doubled over. He squirms in their grip, feeling as though he’s going to tip over the edge faster than he has in so long. Because it _has_ been so long since he’s taken pleasure like this.

Biting his lip hard enough to taste coppery blood, Aragorn says, “I’m close. _Please_.” 

Legolas pulls away long enough to grab a vial of oil, and while he’s gone, Gimli slides a thick finger in alongside his tongue. He twists, searching, then curls against the spot inside that has Aragorn howling, and promptly coming, spilling onto his thighs and dripping onto the grass below. It feels like it’s been punched out of him, and he falls forward onto his hands. While he’s shaking apart, Gimli pulls away, wiping his mouth with a self-satisfied smirk. 

“One for me, Legolas,” he says. 

Legolas kisses him, “Only because I went to fetch the oil.” 

“Still counts.”

Aragorn flops onto his back, throwing an arm across his eyes. His heart races against his chest as he attempts to catch his breath. He is floating, loose limbed and easy in mind. When he returns to himself, it’s to the sight of Legolas sucking Gimli’s cock down, rosebud lips stretched wide around the girth of it. A wave of raw want cascades over Aragorn, thinking about it stretching him wide and heavy in his belly. He whimpers, throwing an arm across his eyes. 

The other two glance at him. 

“Welcome back,” Gimli says, reaching to pinch one of Aragorn’s nipples. Aragorn arches into the sensation.

Legolas pulls off, says, “Gimli, I have an idea.” Legolas lays along Aragorn’s left side, bids Gimli to lay along Aragorn’s right. Plucking Aragorn’s arm off his face, he continues, “Use your mouth on him, see if this can bring him to spill again.”

Aragorn’s eyes widen, mouth dropping open as they set to work, biting, nipping, suckling at his pecs. Gimli holds him still with one heavy hand on his pelvis while Legolas strokes his soft cock to hardness once more. Oversensitive, he hisses, warring between arching into and away from them. Together, the twin ministrations has him writhing, legs slipping along the grass, aching for _something_ that they won’t give him quite yet. Legolas soothes hard sucks with languid, warm licks, shoving his nose into Aragorn’s chest hair or beneath his arm to breathe deep his scent. Gimli bites him particularly hard, making him yelp, cock jerking in Legolas’s grip. His chest jerks up into their mouths, certain he’ll bare the marks from Gimli’s beard come morrow. 

“Very good, Aragorn,” Legolas says, leaning up to press his face against Aragorn’s thrumming pulse, “doing so well. Can you come again like this? From us on your teats?” 

Aragorn nods, helpless, shuddering, and spilling hot over Legolas’s fingers. With a noise of surprise, Aragorn sucks them clean after Legolas offers them to him. Rubbing gently over Aragorn’s swollen, sore chest, Gimli leans back on his heels.

“I’ll give you that one,” Gimli says. “It seems Aragorn appreciates your mouth in more ways than one. Tell us, have you thought of us like this before?”

Aragorn feels the tips of his ears burn hot, the flush he’s been sporting along his high cheekbones flowing down his neck. He moans around Legolas’s fingers, but nods once more.

After bodily hauling Aragorn’s hips over his thighs, Gimli hums, uncorking the vial to spill oil over his fingers. Aragorn’s forced to let his legs fall wide around Gimli’s wide, _broad_ chest. The position is vulnerable, a bit demeaning, and makes him so very _hot_. Gimli traces circles around his rim a few times, then slips two in at once. Aragorn throws his head back, exhaling sharply. Promptly, Legolas offers his cock which Aragorn swallows down. The angle is awkward—he has to twist his neck a bit—but that only serves to make him burn hotter, for he is here for them just as much as they are for him. He will be a King. Is it not only natural for him to serve his people?

The taste of Legolas is thicker, different from Men. Something about it seems older, more refined, like a finely aged wine. With a flash of shame, Aragorn wishes Legolas would let some of his come pool on Aragorn’s tongue, that he might swallow it all down. The girth of it, not as wide as Gimli, is enough to stretch his lips and turn them ruby red. He wraps an arm around Legolas’s thigh to haul him in further. Legolas only laughs merrily and obliges him, rocking against Aragorn’s face slow and deep into his throat. Between his trembling legs, Gimli’s stout fingers twist and curl, drawing forward. Aragorn’s body jumps of its own accord when they brush against the spot deep inside, relentless in their pursuit of bringing him to hardness once more. 

Tears spring to his eyes, for it has been so long since he’s taken pleasure like this. On the road with the Company, he has had but precious few stolen moments. And even then, it was hurried and rushed, beneath a blanket with no real finesse—a means to an end—and never with spare oil or space to crook a finger inside as he would at home. However, Gimli’s strong and practiced fingers have him hissing at the ache burning deep in the pit of his belly. 

After spending twice already, every touch they lay on him is heightened and magnified to the extreme. His chest throbs, nipples puffy and raw, thigh muscles twitching, and he moans loud and helpless around Legolas’s prick. He pulls off for a moment to catch his breath, and that’s when Gimli slips in a third finger which he fans outward to spread Aragorn wide.

“Yes,” he says to the cool night air, hips moving in circles down onto Gimli’s fingers. He hasn’t been so aroused, so single-mindedly focused on chasing his own peak in months, maybe even years, as he rides the pain and pleasure. “Yes,” he says again, “ _yes._ ”

Gimli slides an axe-roughened hand along his hip bones, kneading the hollows of them. “Hush lad,” he says, gruff but not unkind and laced with desire, “I’ll give you what you need.” Gimli’s face is hewn and chiseled, reminding Aragorn of the Argonath and Imladris’ statues and the rocky cliffs of Belfalas’s bay: proud, eternal, majestic. 

Gimli shoves a knuckle against the spot behind his balls at the same time he presses his fingers up, and Aragorn yelps at the sharp jab of pleasure that spikes through him. Legolas takes his hand, rubbing his thumb against his jumping pulse. Leaning in, Legolas kisses Gimli languid and sweet. Practiced, like they’ve done this many times before. And, Aragorn strains to think against Gimli’s touch, they _have_ , since Lothlorien at least. They’re beautiful, both of them apart, and even more so together. Legolas’s hair falls silken over Gimli’s shoulders, melding with copper and beads. 

“He takes it so well,” Legolas says, and his head rests against Gimli’s shoulder now, looking coy. Legolas strokes his own cock, pinches his own nipple as he watches Gimli ply Aragorn open with intent. “Yields so easily. You’d barely have to put a hand to him before he’d take it.”

Aragorn’s hips kick forward of their own volition while he bites his lip to stifle a groan. His prick jerks at the words. Aragorn feels himself start to swell for a third time. Blinking through the sweat-matted hair in his eyes, he looks as Legolas and Gimli gaze at each other, fond. Gaze at _him_ , fond. 

“Aye, that he would,” Gimli says, “but I think I like having him here, split open in my lap on four of my fingers.” 

This time Aragorn _does_ groan: a shaky exhalation of breath because he hadn’t realized how far Gimli has him stretched until now. And _now_ , oh _yes_ , he zones in on the swell of knuckle, on the thumb rubbing around his raw entrance. There’s a throbbing in the cradle of his hips, aching for fullness and pressure. 

“Please,” he whispers, hands clutching the ground. 

“What was that, Estel?” Legolas says. Aragorn would glare at him if he could summon any amount of rational thought beyond the need swelling in his belly. 

“Fuck me, please,” he chokes out. Reaching up, he lays his palm against Gimli’s chest, strokes the pelt of hair there before scratching his nails down the length of him. The other hand wraps around Legolas’s strong thigh. The other two share a look, then Gimli smiles, pulls his hand out of Aragorn with a slick noise. Quickly, Aragorn turns over onto his hands and knees, and says, “Like this.” 

He can’t see their faces while they decide who goes where: he’s too busy concentrating on his shaking limbs and dripping cock, miraculously hard once more. Pearls of come drip down onto the lush grass of Rohan. Though he should feel exposed with them out in the open as they are, he knows that they’d let no harm come to them right now. Gimli’s broad hand trails along his back and ass, down his legs, tickling his inner thigh while Legolas settles in front of him, tipping his head up by his chin. 

Eyes flickering away, Legolas says, or more so _sings,_ “Gimli, have I told you how beautiful you are? In the firelight, your eyes are more beautiful than any treasure of my father’s halls.” Legolas pets his hair absently. 

“Thank you, my elf. And might I say that you look like the finest of alabaster. Like you’ve been hewed from precious marble by only the most skilled of hands. If only I could spend an eternity in your halls.”

Aragorn feels, distinctly, like he’s been caught in an entirely too-intimate conversation, like he’s an intruder in their home, as elf and dwarf speak sweet poetry back and forth with only Aragorn to remember. But that thought progresses into something more sensual: an image of his two dear friends sharing their love with him, somehow reaching each other through him, and he moans.

Their banter pauses.

“Thought about this much, lad?” Gimli says. 

Aragorn doesn’t want to say anything to that, but Legolas pulls his hair, and he’s compelled to speak. 

“ _Hah_ , only— only a few times.”

“Hmm,” Legolas hums, “and in those few times, what did you see?”

Aragorn, voice dangerously close to a whine, says, “I only thought—if you’d both fuck me, then you’d have to get along. I could be the conduit—you two would use me to make peace.”

Gimli pushes slow and deep inside him, tugging at Aragorn’s nipples again. Aragorn moans, twists in his grip. Legolas smooths over Aragorn’s hair, drags the dripping tip of his cock over Aragorn’s swollen lips. Aragorn reaches for it only to be tugged back onto the girth of Gimli’s cock. He tries not to whimper, tries not to show his need for Legolas’s taste, the weight of him on Aragorn’s tongue. It should shame him, just how much he craves the choke of Legolas’s prick, though he knows they would merely laugh at the prudishness of Men.

Grinning at Legolas, Gimli says, “I think our King is getting pouty, Master Elf.”

“I agree,” Legolas says, and there is a wicked tilt to his smirk that makes Aragorn flush anew, can feel it rolling across his cheeks, “are we not paying you enough attention, Aragorn?”

Aragorn’s tongue sticks in his mouth, blood roiling through his veins. There is a knuckle beneath his chin, tilting his head up, and then Legolas’s sweet mouth is on his, biting his lip, licking his way in. Gimli hasn’t moved, content to watch, while his weight makes the heat in Aragorn’s pelvis _throb_. He massages Aragorn’s back, strokes the ridge of his spine, kneads the base of his neck. Aragorn can never be certain whether it’s only Legolas or all elves, but when they kiss, time narrows down, every sensation heightened, leaving Aragorn light-headed. 

“ _Beautiful_ ,” Legolas says in their shared language with a fond look before finally feeding Aragorn his cock once more. “So handsome. Do you always yield this easy?” 

Sighing through his nose, Aragorn takes Legolas deep in his throat, swallowing around it. His eyes fall shut, humming in gratitude as his answer. Legolas responds by fisting his hair and roughly fucking Aragorn’s face several times in quick succession. When he pulls out for a tease, spit trails down Aragorn’s face. Legolas takes his thumb, smears his own come and Aragorn’s spit across Aragorn’s face. Aragorn moans, feeling filthy. He falls easy to the pace Legolas sets, tension flowing out of his body. 

Gimli rubs his hip bones, then grabs tight and fucks up quick and deep into him, driving air from his lungs. Lurching forward, he gags on Legolas’s cock, an obscene noise from deep within his throat. Aragorn quivers with effort to stay upright. 

“Ai, Gimli,” Legolas chokes out, “he sings so beautifully for us.” Cupping Aragorn’s face, Legolas smoothes thumbs across his high, flushed cheekbones, swipes away the tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. They are happy, overwhelmed tears from being able to give this to his dear friends (and also from both of them pushing his body every which way). Aragorn tucks his lips around his teeth to keep from grazing Legolas, but the effort is wasted with the force Legolas uses to fuck his mouth. His heavy, breath puffs through his nose, flaring when it’s pressed to blonde curls at the apex of Legolas’s thighs. Gods, the way Aragorn wants to press his whole face to this part of Legolas, inhale that unique dewy musk, lick the skin where thigh meets hip. 

Rolling his hips languid in a pounding, heady rhythm that only a Dwarf could manage, Gimli fucks him so thoroughly that Aragorn’s afraid for a moment that he’ll shake apart into pieces. Fat, thick, and lovely, the way Gimli’s dick makes him feel over-full, hyper-focused on the pulse in the cradle of his own hips. Aragorn can feel the blood pulsing through it, can feel every ridge and vein while it turns him inside out. Gimli’s calloused hand splays out on his lower back, forcing Aragorn to arch back, spine curving. 

With a sound that rolls through Gimli into him, Gimli groans. Aragorn wishes he could see how he looks—flushed beneath his beard, head thrown back as he takes his pleasure from Aragorn’s body. The thought alone is enough to draw a whimper from him. The vibrations send Legolas thrusting forward harder than usual, but Aragorn takes it: opens his throat and swallows what they give him. 

Legolas comes first, yanking his head back by his bangs and ordering him to _open his mouth, Aragorn_. Their eyes meet as Aragorn bares his tongue and receives the hot splash of Legolas’s come over his lips, teeth, cheek. Revels in the way it drips down his face, catching in his beard. And Legolas is _right there_ , catching the globs with his thumb and feeding it to Aragorn, lets Aragorn nurse on it. 

From behind, Gimli thrusts hard enough to send the two of them forward. Legolas collapses onto his back while Aragorn yelps, falling face-first into his belly. Every pulse, slick slip drag of his cock makes Aragorn’s guts burn with need, knees scrambling in the grass for purchase, useless against the onslaught. Legolas moves to wrap a hand around Aragorn’s weeping cock only to be swatted away by Gimli who angles Aragorn’s hips just so and nails him so suddenly and efficiently that Aragorn screams. Loose-limbed like a child’s ragdoll, Gimli maneuvers him into his preferred position (on his side, legs out in front so that Aragorn’s ass squeezes down). 

It’s with like that, that Aragorn comes for a third time without a hand on him. Pleasure tearing through him and leaving nothing in its wake. Gimli follows shortly after, with a tumbling, rolling noise. His come, searing Aragorn from the inside out, dribbles out between his abused thighs. Their rasping gasps of breath commingling as they calm down. Legolas strokes them in equal parts, smiling without a hair out of place. If he had the strength, Aragorn would roll his eyes. Instead, he smiles, grasps Legolas’s neck, and kisses him soundly. 

Both of their hands are on him then, swiping the come away with a spare cloth, gentling him back into his clothes. If they were living different lives, Aragorn would have them spread him out like a feast between them, keep him wet and satiated for hours. But, they are living this life: camped out in the plains of Rohan, chasing a pack of orcs on the slimmest chance that two little hobbits, who hold all their hearts, still draw breath. Aragorn’s led to their bedrolls and curled between their two bodies. Legolas won’t sleep yet (that odd, twilight sleep of the Elves that Aragorn finds strangely beautiful), and his senses will be enough of a watch to allow Gimli and Aragorn to rest. 

He wants to tell them _thank you_ or something equally as unnecessary. He also wants to berate them for holding out on him for so long. He does neither of these in the end, instead choosing to rest his head against Gimli’s sturdy shoulder while Legolas rubs his shoulders. It’s the rhythm of their friendship—the tender love built up over months of hard travel, heavy loss, shared joy. He falls asleep resting easy in the cradle of their arms. Tomorrow, the sun will rise pink and brilliant over the east, casting Rohan’s grasslands golden-tipped. They will rise, and they will go on. For now though, they hold each other through the dark, the only thing that can ever be done. 


End file.
